


The Time Between "I Love You"s

by roonerspism



Category: Talkin' 'bout Your Generation RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, F/M, Homophobia, Infidelity, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-24
Updated: 2011-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roonerspism/pseuds/roonerspism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh loves Charlie. He has confessed, and there’s no turning back.<br/>Charlie isn’t so sure. He’s married, and already over thirty. Surely it’s too late for self discovery, and too early for a midlife crisis?<br/>Or maybe not.<br/>When he finds himself on a psychologist’s couch, Charlie must come to terms with his failing marriage, his waning interest in women, and just what a confession of love from Josh might mean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Time Between "I Love You"s

**Author's Note:**

> This was certainly a hard slog. I felt numb for days after finishing it.
> 
> Anyway, I would like to thank my beta, LJ's pooglicorn, who read this through at the last minute, and my artist, LJ's halfeatenmoon, who made an awesome fan mix full of great Australian music (which can be found [HERE](http://halfeatenmoon.livejournal.com/469149.html). I recommend you download it even if you don’t read the fic. Seriously, fantastic songs).
> 
> I would also like to apologise to Charlie Pickering, both for what I did to him, and what I made him do. I love you man, really.

A phone call. It is ten past midnight. The reception is fuzzy and full of static. Josh fears he’ll be disconnected before he can say what he needs to say. But bigger than that is the fear of saying it at all. Eventually he musters the courage to blurt out, “Look. I… I love you, Charlie. Is that okay?” There is a pause. “Oh God, please say it’s okay.”

Charlie says nothing, and emptiness echoes down the phone line.

Reception drops out.

-

 _Three months later_

A psychologist’s practice room. An upright fan rotates in weary circles, fighting a losing battle against the harsh summer heat. Sweat beads on Charlie’s upper lip, and a trickle of perspiration trails down his spine. The psychologist gnaws on her pen lid absently, and taps her high-heel clad foot against the carpeted floor. Her job is to listen, but so far she has done very little of that.

“Charles, you haven’t spoken for almost thirty minutes.” Charlie wipes his clammy face with the back of his hand. The psychologist presses on. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about today?”

The fan blows lukewarm air in Charlie’s direction. He watches a drop of sweat slide down the psychologist’s leg, borne from the back of her knee. Suddenly, the whole thing seems ridiculous. Charlie sighs audibly and steels himself to speak.

“I think I might be gay.”

Once it’s out in the open air, Charlie feels his entire body slacken. He watches the words float about in the breeze from the fan, maybe not quite reaching the psychologist’s ears, he thinks, as she doesn’t respond for some time. His admission flutters to the floor, and he bows his head as if following its path.

Finally, the psychologist replies. “And how long have you felt this way?”

Her seeming indifference bothers Charlie for some reason. He stares at her blankly, as if waiting for something more. Eventually she slowly, gently, repeats herself. “Charles, how long have you felt that you might be gay?”

*

A fight. Another one, and Charlie feels the anger buzzing inside him like a cloud of hornets, hot and brutal, stinging his stomach.

Claire is shouting something, hands gesticulating wildly, hair ruffled and falling in front of her eyes.

Charlie remembers how he loved that hair. Their wedding night, as she slowly let it out of the tight bun and it fell loose about her face, curling at the ends. As she stood there, naked and pale, skin blemishes on show but completely invisible to Charlie, that dark hair somehow shining like sunlight. Now, thinking of it, he balls his fingers into fists, letting his fingernails dig into his palms.

Still spitting venom, Claire takes no notice. Charlie has lost track of what she’s saying, busy willing himself not to lose his temper, not to join in with the shouting. It is something about his drinking, and her disapproval of this, and Charlie vaguely recalls nights gone by when both of them were delightfully drunk, kissing and laughing and making love, and he frowns.

“I’m going out,” he declares suddenly, quietly. Too quite for Claire to be sure he has even spoken, let alone hear what it is he has said.

Momentarily stunned, the yelling stops. “I’m… sorry?”

“I said, I’m going out,” Charlie says, voice low and gravelly. And he turns and walks away from her, barely registering the “Don’t you even think about coming back here tonight!” that lashes out after him.

He lets the door close loudly behind him.

-

A crowded Melbourne bar. It’s three hours since Charlie walked out on Claire, and he’s spent most of the intervening time doing exactly the thing Claire had been angry at him for; Charlie raises another shot glass to his lips, and gulps the vodka down.

He is pleasantly drunk.

As Charlie orders his next drink, whisky now, he decides, he feels the fierce burn of someone’s eyes on him, searing twin holes in the back of his head. He isn’t sure quite why he feels the gaze so strongly, but he turns around slightly on his barstool, seeking out the observer.

There is a group of four young women standing by the nearest wall, all watching him, and as he looks their way, smiling lopsidedly, they giggle and shriek at each other. Charlie knows instinctively that it was not any of these girls who he had felt staring. He knows, too, that they wouldn’t be reacting to him in such a way if he wasn’t on the television. Sighing, he spins further on his stool.

And there, half buried in a crush of bodies, Charlie sees him. Yes, he notes with a start, _him_.

Eyes meet across the room, and Charlie shifts uncomfortably. The blond man who is staring at him still, pushes his way past a dancing couple, and makes a beeline for Charlie. Charlie quickly turns away, taking up his whisky and sipping at it in as nonchalant a manner as he can.

“Hey there.”

Charlie ignores the man, who is now seated next to him at the bar.

“I said hey,” the man tries again.

Groaning inwardly, Charlie looks up at him, frown lines etched into his forehead. “What?”

Not quite taking the hint, the man smiles brightly. “I’m Robert.”

“My Aunt had a budgie called Robert,” Charlie replies lamely.

Robert seems amused by this. Then he says, “Are you Charlie? From the telly?”

Charlie sighs softly. “Yeah.”

“You’re pretty cool.”

“Thanks?”

Robert grins. “You’re welcome. Can I buy you a drink, maybe?”

Realising with a start that Robert is hitting on him, Charlie is lost for a suitable response. In the end he just shrugs. “Uh, sure.”

Four drinks later, and Charlie has loosened up rather a lot. The sour air that has been billowing about him all evening has disappeared, replaced by a certain degree of drunken excitement.

With each round of drinks Robert has casually moved closer to Charlie, and now their elbows are touching on the bar. Charlie notes vaguely the warmth that spreads from the point of contact, down to his tingling fingertips, and up his arm, into the rest of his body. He knows somewhere in the back of his mind that he should be surprised by this feeling, but instead he just smiles a goofy smile and leans closer to the other man.

Robert is saying something about Charlie’s hair. Charlie isn’t quite sure what, as he is preoccupied with Robert’s own, so blond it is almost white. And terribly shaggy. Long enough to tug on, he thinks, then quickly wonders why that thought would cross his mind. He shakes his head and attempts to focus on Robert’s voice.

“So yeah. I liked your hair when it was curly. Gave you this sort of… sweet, cheeky quality. Not saying it’s bad now. I mean, you look quite suave. But I did like those curls.”

Robert has green eyes. The green of deep seas and moss. The left has a small fleck of amber in it. Both shine with mischievous promise. Charlie swims in their depths for a time, before he notices that Robert has stopped talking, and is staring straight back at him.

“Huh,” he says, blinking slowly.

Robert winks at him. “Another drink? Or would you like to… get out of here?” There is something in Robert’s tone that is anything but innocent. Charlie finds he doesn’t mind this idea at all.

“Let’s go,” he decides swiftly.

The two of them slip off their barstools and take a few stumbling steps in the direction of the door. Charlie, who has consumed a fair amount more alcohol than Robert over the course of the evening, leans on Robert for support. Robert wraps his arm around Charlie’s waist and leads him outside into the small alleyway where the bar is located.

They come to a stop a few metres from the door, and Charlie leans back against the brick wall. His head is full of heat and an aching for something indefinable. Robert’s face hovers close, so close to his own. Without thinking, Charlie reaches out and grabs Robert’s shoulder, pulling him forcefully up against Charlie’s body. And then he tilts his head up and kisses Robert.

Robert is not at all surprised, which in turn surprises Charlie. He willingly melts into the kiss, quickly working it into a heated and fierce affair. While Charlie’s tongue explores his mouth, Robert lets his hand wander down Charlie’s chest and stomach, then slide under his shirt. His fingers splay out on Charlie’s bare skin, gripping gently at the man’s hip. In turn, Charlie drops his hand down and snakes it around behind Robert, grabbing at his rear.

Robert traces a line down Charlie’s abdomen with his free hand, firm and steady, all the way to his crotch. There he stops, and cups his hand over Charlie’s groin, squeezing gently. Charlie ruts his hips forward involuntarily, and Robert grins into their kiss, huffs a laugh, spirit-tainted breath playing across Charlie’s face.

Charlie knows he should feel badly about what he’s doing and what it means for his relationship with Claire. He knows, and yet he can’t quite bring himself to care. Not when this isn’t the first time he has been unfaithful. And definitely not whilst Robert is groping him, and sweat is beading on his brow, and his pants are so uncomfortably tight.

The four girls who had been eyeing Charlie inside the bar choose this moment to exit the establishment and spill, giggling and gasping, into the alley. One of them spies Charlie and Robert as she leans over, dry retching. She is quick to point the two of them out to her friends, who huddle together and leer drunkenly at the oblivious men.

While the girls watch on, Robert unbuttons Charlie’s dark denim jeans and slips his hand into Charlie’s underpants, wrapping slender fingers around his semi-erect cock. Charlie feels a fresh wave of heat crash over him; Robert’s fingers are strong, and slightly calloused, and they brush down the length of him with practised ease.

The kiss breaks at last, and Charlie lets his head fall back against the brick work, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. One of the girls, recognising Charlie now that his face is no longer obscured, lets out a squeal of mischievous delight before one of her friends claps a hand over her mouth. As it is, neither man notices the disturbance.

Charlie is bucking wildly into Robert’s welcoming fist, and Robert has his face buried in the crook of Charlie’s neck while he grinds himself up against Charlie‘s hip. Their movements are erratic and out of synch with each other. And suddenly, Charlie is coming, spilling inside his pants and over Robert’s hand, and the look in his eyes is that of someone who now, finally, understands.

*

A psychologist’s practice room. The clock ticks a steady bass beat that floods the small area with sound. Charlie folds his arms awkwardly and looks at a spot on the wall just past the psychologist’s head.

“I see,” says the psychologist. “So you just realised, in that moment?”

Charlie nods mutely, any thought of a verbal reply stifled by the blush on his beet-red cheeks.

“And how does this revelation make you feel, Charles? How do you feel about the idea of being homosexual?”

*

A school yard. It is early afternoon, and lunch time. Students flee classrooms and congregate in the canteen, on the oval, in the rose gardens. The younger boys marvel over the mysteries of girls, and the older boys swap stories of their sexual conquests. Behind the bike shed, a group of five are gathered around a sixth boy, who is currently sprawled on the ground at their feet.

One of the circle is a seventeen year old boy with a mop of overly long, overly curly brown hair. It hangs about his ears and falls across his face, and he brushes it aside with accustomed impatience. Charlie. He is perhaps the leader, and appears to have some level of authority amongst the group. And he holds court currently, four sets of eager eyes trained upon him as he hurls abuse at the young boy on the ground.

“You fucking faggot! You’re fucking disgusting!”

The victim whimpers, and scrambles on the concrete, attempting to right himself. But two of the other boys push him back down, and Charlie laughs, almost a cackle, crackling through the air like electricity.

“Please,” the boy on the ground begs, nearly cries, “just leave me alone.”

“Unlikely,” scoffs one of the circle.

Another taunts, “You like it up the arse?” in a scathing voice.

And then, after some silent command from Charlie, the other three launch a physical attack. The largest, who is well over six feet tall and well-muscled, kicks at the boy’s stomach. The other two, smaller but no less threatening, stomp on his ankles and throw rocks at his scrawny body.

Eventually the beating ceases, and Charlie bends over to inspect the damage. The battered teen lies motionless and prone before him. Charlie leans forward until he is right up close to his victim’s ear, and mutters in a voice as dark as midnight, “Don’t you ever touch me again, you piece of shit.”

*

A psychologist’s practice room. The air is damp and heated, and everything is still. Even the clock seems to have stopped.

“I hate myself,” Charlie states simply.

-

A blur of events. This is how the next four days pass.

Charlie goes out on Thursday night, stopping at the first bar he comes across, and settles in early for a few hours of drinking.

It is at this bar, after countless drinks, that he spies an attractive young man in a business suit sitting at a table by himself, nursing a beer. Empty glasses and bottles are strewn on the table in front of him, and there is a glint of desperation in his eyes. Charlie approaches him without even thinking.

“Hi.”

The businessman glances at Charlie briefly, blue eyes flashing loneliness, before returning to his beer. “Hey,” he mumbles into his drink.

“How are you?” Charlie asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

The man huffs a laugh. “How do I look?”

Charlie cocks his head. “Pretty lousy.”

“Thanks.”

Smiling wryly, Charlie slides onto the booth seat next to the other man. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

They sit in silence for a time. The businessman sculls the rest of his beer and places the pint glass back on the table, running his index finger around the rim of it slowly.

“What’s your name?” he asks at length.

Inwardly, Charlie lets out a sigh of relief that the man doesn’t recognise him. “I’m Charlie,” he says, offering his hand to shake.

“Blake,” the man says, accepting the hand and shaking it, maybe too eagerly. His grip is strong, and his palm is slightly dry, cool from holding the beer glass, and larger than Charlie’s own. Charlie feels a spark of something in him when they touch.

Ten minutes later they are pressed together against the inside of a toilet cubicle.

Blake’s pale ginger hair is cut short, and is spiky to the touch. Charlie runs his hands over it in drunken revelry. Blake is sucking on Charlie’s throat, though not hard enough to leave a mark, which Charlie finds through the haze in his head that he appreciates. They grip at each other’s bodies, and grind together fiercely, carelessly, until they both come, too quickly, like teenagers. Then they part, just as fast. Charlie opens the cubicle door and stumbles out to the sink, splashing water on his face. Blake sits down on the closed toilet lid, head in his hands, the next day’s hangover making an early march for battle.

Charlie wipes his wet hands on the front of his jeans, noting with distaste the creamy stain just near his fly. He throws a backward glance at Blake, who nods curtly, face still in his hands. And with that, he pushes open the bathroom door and leaves.

-

A couch. It is Friday morning, the early hours. Claire decides day by day whether Charlie can share her bed, and lately he has been spending more time in the lounge room than the bedroom.

On Friday night, hangover dissipated, he is out again. A different bar this time, but just as much alcohol. And here, after an hour of throwing back drinks, he meets Ian.

Ian is a tall, stocky, forty-something. He does taxation, or accounting, or something else to do with numbers and money. Charlie isn’t really listening. He is focussed on the sprinkling of grey hair around Ian’s temples, and the shallow furrows in his forehead. Ian chatters away, not actually looking directly at Charlie, and definitely not noticing that Charlie isn’t paying attention to him.

Ian reminds him of someone. Some of the mannerisms and facial expressions are all too familiar. Charlie pushes it from his admittedly muddled mind, and tries to listen to the man as he speaks. He makes it another fifteen minutes before suggesting they leave.

It is dark in the bar, and crowded, and nobody notices when Charlie and Ian slip away, grabbing at each other’s arms and hands and heads, and clamber into a taxi together.

Ian’s apartment is large, too big for one person to live in by themselves. Ian leads him through the well furnished kitchen and lounge, and to the bedroom. The layout of the bedroom is more minimalist than the other rooms, with much sparser furnishings and far fewer colours. The walls are cream and the bedspread is white. The bookcase and chest of drawers are similarly pale. It all seems rather clinical, and gives Charlie the uneasy feeling of being in a hospital. He makes every effort to ignore this and push on with proceedings.

While he’s inspecting the room, Ian is undressing. Charlie doesn’t realise until the man, naked now, reaches out and touches his arm softly. He starts, and his cheeks blush cherry red as his eyes sweep the length of Ian’s body.

“Charlie,” Ian says, “are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just… It’s nothing.”

Ian runs his hand over Charlie’s chest and down to the hem of his plain black t-shirt. He looks up at Charlie pointedly, and Charlie nods, so he lifts the shirt up and over Charlie’s head. Then his hands come to rest on Charlie’s belt, and he hesitates. Charlie blinks heavily, once, twice. Shakes his head, no. Ian drops his hands away hastily.

Charlie can feel the effects of the evening’s alcohol beginning to wear off. Making a snap decision, he pushes Ian back towards the bed. The man bumps the backs of his legs against the mattress, and bends to sit on the edge of it. And Charlie falls to his knees between Ian’s legs.

It is over in less than ten minutes, although as his head clears it feels like a much longer time to Charlie.

Afterwards, Ian disappears into the bathroom to clean himself off. Charlie sits on the bed and gathers himself together. While he waits for his thoughts to re-order themselves, he spots something glint in the corner of his eye. He turns his attention to the bed side table. What he sees makes his stomach drop.

A wedding ring sits on the corner of the table, clean, obviously still worn on a daily basis.

Charlie grinds his teeth together slowly. Regret and anger are having a running race inside his head. He can sense a turtle-slow headache starting to plod along in there too. He knows, realistically, he has no right to be angry. Ian’s not the only one who has been unfaithful to someone. He looks down at his left hand, his own wedding ring dull and lifeless. Suddenly it feels like a lead weight on his finger.

Ian re-enters the bedroom, and Charlie looks up, about to speak. It is at this moment he realises who it is the Ian reminds him of. Ian smiles, and he sees Shaun.

Now a third feeling has entered the race inside Charlie’s mind. A sickness rises from the pit of his stomach and fills his head with static. He admires and respects Shaun, naturally, but now what he has just done with Ian seems infinitely more depraved.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

Ian either doesn’t hear him, or isn’t concerned. “So,” he says casually, “can I return the favour?”

But Charlie is on his feet, shaking his head, and reaching to the floor to retrieve his discarded shirt. He pulls it back on, and turns back to Ian.

“I’m sorry, did I -”

“No,” Charlie says, cutting Ian off. “No. _I’m_ sorry. But I have to go. Right now.”

“… Let me show you out?” Ian asks, looking horribly confused.

“It’s fine.”

Before Ian has the chance to reply, Charlie has slipped out of the bedroom and into the hall. Ian follows him to the front door, standing to one side as Charlie exits the house, closing the door swiftly behind him.

-

A backpackers hostel. Charlie can’t quite recall how he came to be here, and registers nothing much but the unfairly attractive German man standing before him. He is twenty-four, with dark blond hair and stubble. He has a tattoo of Felix the cat on his right shoulder. He smiles, and dimples appear in his cheeks. Charlie doubts he has ever seen someone so beautiful.

He doesn’t know the man’s name.

It is irrelevant. The man is already on his knees, with Charlie backed up against the wall. As his mouth closes around Charlie’s cock, Charlie swears loudly. It has been a long time since anyone has done this for him. Claire detested oral sex. The German man pauses for a moment, uncertain, but Charlie murmurs, “Keep going,” and he carries on, picking up a steady rhythm as he does so.

The man hums, and Charlie bucks his hips forward involuntarily. He eventually starts to lose control of his movements completely, and his whole body tenses, and he comes. The German man swallows politely, and smiles his dimply smile. Charlie gazes down at him, at his long, dark eyelashes and strong jaw. Runs his fingertips over the man’s Felix tattoo, and can’t help a smile of his own.

“You’re gorgeous,” he sighs.

The man blinks sweetly, and pushes himself to a standing position. He leans forward and kisses Charlie, and Charlie can taste himself, salty and warm, on the man’s tongue. The telling hardness of the man’s erection presses against his hip.

Charlie’s gut flips, nauseas, when he thinks about dropping to his knees for this nameless man. He can’t stomach it. Not after Ian. Instead, he carefully unbuttons and unzips the man’s trousers, and curls his fingers through thick pubic hair, wrapping them around the man’s cock.

He slides his hand down the length a few times, testing the waters, waiting for the man’s reaction. A subtle moan meets his ministrations. Reassured, Charlie strokes harder, urged on by the man’s continual sounds of encouragement.

When the man finally reaches his orgasm, Charlie feels the warm liquid spill out over his hand and up his wrist. He locks eyes with the German, and grins at the sated expression, knowing he is responsible.

The man smiles broadly at him. Charlie nods, then motions to the door. With a mutual silent agreement, the man flops back on his bed, and Charlie makes for the toilets, washing his hands thoroughly before fleeing the hostel and heading for home.

-

A gay bar. It is an hour from closing time. Charlie gazes at his surroundings, eyebrows arched and eyes wide. Two women are grinding up against each other on the dance floor nearby. A gay couple kiss fiercely over at the bar. He can see a trio of young women groping each other drunkenly by the bathroom door. Bodies gyrate all over to the bass-heavy music. Charlie has never felt more out of place.

Someone taps Charlie on the shoulder firmly, and he spins around, coming face to face with a dark haired youth who can’t be much older than nineteen. The man smiles at him, a wicked, crooked smile, and introduces himself as Elias. Charlie stares at him blankly, feels his stomach churn. There’s something in that devious smile, but the man is frighteningly young.

“So, how are you?” Elias asks, shouting over the music.

“Drunk,” Charlie replies matter-of-factly.

“Just how I like ’em,” says Elias, still grinning devilishly.

They are in the bathroom together in a matter of minutes.

Charlie pulls at Elias’ tight-fitting shirt, undoing the buttons and exposing lightly tanned flesh. They stumble and turn, and push up against a wall. Charlie can see himself reflected in the mirror above the sinks. His face is flushed and wanting.

Elias is taller than Charlie, and kind of lanky, but surprisingly toned. Charlie gropes at the man’s chest and abdomen, feeling out the muscles. His hands come to rest on Elias’ hips, and he digs his fingers in, thumbs resting over the curve of the man’s pelvis.

Elias’ hands are on Charlie’s shoulders, gripping firmly. He tilts his head down and kisses Charlie, brief but harsh. Charlie responds by stepping towards him until their bodies are pressed together, then jutting his hips forward gently. He moves purposefully against Elias, searching for a reaction. Elias rewards him with a satisfied moan.

Through the fog of alcohol and arousal, neither man lasts long. Soon, Charlie feels a warmth spread against his hip, and knows Elias is finished. Shortly thereafter, he comes too, panting and crying out.

Both totally spent, they stand side by side, leaning against the bathroom wall. Elias pulls a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pants pocket. He nods his head at Charlie, offering, but Charlie declines, and he lights his cigarette in one swift movement. Then he leans back against the wall again, smoking casually. They stay in that position, silent, catching their breath, for a time. In the end, Elias smokes his cigarette down to a stub before either of them speak.

“Charlie?” Elias begins, running his hand through his ear length dark hair.

“Mmm?”

Elias grabs Charlie’s arm. “Remember me,” he says, and his eyes flash mischief.

“Yeah,” says Charlie.

“Really,” says Elias, “remember me.”

And he pulls Charlie’s hand in close, and puts the still burning cigarette butt to Charlie’s wrist, just for a moment. Charlie flinches and gasps, pulling away quickly. But the cigarette has left its mark - a small, round circle is burnt, red and angry, into Charlie’s flesh.

Charlie inspects the wound with mild fascination as he leaves the club. He is no more than five metres down the street when he is stopped by a rough hand on his shoulder, and a voice shouting, “Oi! Fag!”

He looks up from his wrist, sees a bulky man walking towards him, then spins around to find the person with their hand on his shoulder. As he turns to face them, something forcefully collides with his jaw. Charlie stumbles backwards, shaking his head, wishing he hadn’t had quite so much to drink. He looks up, rubbing his jaw tentatively, to see a man around his own age with a shaved head and several large tattoos pulling his fist back, ready to take another shot. Charlie just has time to register this, and the men standing either side of his attacker, before a second punch hits him square in eye. He yelps automatically, falls back, and tumbles to the footpath.

Once on the ground, Charlie is at the mercy of the other men. He hears footsteps on the concrete path, and the bulky man who had been ahead of him joins the other three. Someone grabs his arms and drags him away from the street, into the closest alleyway. Hidden now from the eyes of passing pedestrians and club bouncers, the four men recommence their attack.

Charlie feels a foot connect with his stomach, another with his lower back. He squirms as they kick him, body curling away from the contact instinctively.

“You faggot,” one of the men is saying, “you dirty little faggot!”

It is only now that Charlie realises he is not just a random victim. That they are in fact targeting him because they suspect he is homosexual. An indefinable emotion bubbles in his gut, rolling up to his throat until he feels as though he may vomit. Then someone’s foot connects violently with his chest, and vomit he does. The four men standing above him laugh cruelly. One of them crouches down beside Charlie’s head and prods his forehead roughly.

“Enjoying yourself, homo?”

Charlie is kicked in the stomach once again. He groans, curling into a ball to protect himself from further attacks. A few more wild shots hit him in the back, until, apparently satisfied with the damage they have done, the men step back and start conversing in obnoxiously loud voices.

“What do we do with him now?” one asks.

“Beats me, David,” replies another.

The man still crouched beside Charlie shrugs, and motions with his head. “Let’s just leave him over there.”

There is a general murmur of agreement following this suggestion. The crouching man stands up, grabbing Charlie’s arms. Another of the men takes hold of his legs, and he is hefted bodily over to the alley’s brick wall and placed next to a large rubbish bin. He curls up again, shaking, breaths coming fast and shallow. The men laugh again, then abandon him where he lies. Charlie listens until the retreating footsteps are well out of earshot before making an attempt to get up.

Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself upright, gasping as his stomach muscles stretch and pain shoots through him. There is a warmth on his face that he until now hasn’t noticed, and when he puts his hand to his head it comes away bloody.

“Shit,” Charlie sighs, wiping his hand on his shirt. It pulls open slightly as he does so, and he realises several of the buttons are missing. Looking down, he sees his pants are covered in dirt, and his sneakers are scuffed and the laces of one have come untied. His whole body aches, and he is sure he looks even worse than he feels. All he wants is to get home and collapse into bed. He hopes, for the first time in weeks, that Claire is feeling charitable tonight.

-

A television studio. Filming for the first episode of Talkin’ ’Bout Your Generation for 2011 has just wrapped up, and Charlie sits back in Shaun’s chair, tapping his fingers on the large desk in front of him. Josh is a few metres away, bounding around enthusiastically, a stark contrast to earlier; he has been shooting Charlie troubled glances all evening, even going so far as to approach him in between one take and reach out a hand to touch him, brushing it worriedly down his forearm.

Charlie tries not to think about Josh, or his concern, and watches as audience members file out of the studio, chatting amongst themselves, and exchanging words with his co-stars and their guests for the episode. Several of them make their way across the stage to come and speak to Charlie. He chats with them amiably, but continues to rap his fingers on the desk, impatient. When the last of the crowd has left, Charlie almost leaps from his seat, hurrying to his dressing room.

Safely inside, he sets about removing his make-up. As the concealer wipes away from around his right eye, a bruise reveals itself. Charlie winces as he touches the affected area, and again as he remembers the attack from three days prior. While he is cleaning his face, careful not to irritate the bruise any further, there comes a knock at the dressing room door.

“Charlie?” Shaun’s voice calls.

Charlie freezes, facial wipe to his cheek, and replies, “Yes?”

Without asking for admission, Shaun pushes the door open and lets himself in. His face is warm, but there is a hint of worry in his eyes. Charlie keeps his back to Shaun, trying to hide his bruised eye, but knows that this tactic won’t buy him much time.

Shaun takes a seat on the small two-seater couch against the wall, and gazes around the room. His eyes finally come to rest on Charlie’s reflection in the mirror, a profile of the left side of Charlie’s face.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Fine,” Charlie shoots back, too fast, too defensive. Shaun knows in an instant that there is something more to the situation. He stands up again, crosses to Charlie, places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I like to think we’re friends, Charlie,” Shaun begins, seriously.

“We are, Shaun,” Charlie says. “We are.”

“So you don’t need to lie to me.”

There goes a beat.

“I know,” says Charlie, and he spins in his chair, dropping his hand down, showing Shaun the bruise. Surprise and knowing and a gravely serious expression all cross Shaun’s face at once. He looks for a moment as though he is going to reach out and touch Charlie’s cheek but then thinks better of it.

“Charlie…”

“I know.”

“What happened?” Shaun asks, voice laced with concern.

“I…” Charlie starts, then loses his nerve. He looks up at Shaun, eyes flickering. His face feels hot and his body itches all over. He runs his fingers through his finely styled hair, pulling the straightened strands back into their natural curl. “It’s…” he tries again, then shakes his head, looking at his feet. Shaun waits patiently for him to gather his thoughts and make a third attempt at his tale. Finally, Charlie swallows and steels himself. “It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got plenty of time.”

“I’ve been seeing a psychologist,” Charlie admits, still gazing at the floor. Shaun simply nods and waits for Charlie to continue. “I think… I _know_ … I’m gay.”

To his credit, Shaun is remarkably nonplussed by this revelation. He smiles softly, eyes shining bright and full of warmth. “I did always wonder,” he says.

Charlie’s mouth opens and closes several times before he recoups, and manages to quip, “Really? Always? That’s longer than I’ve known, Shaun.”

Shaun’s small smile becomes a wide grin. “I’m just fabulous at reading people. It’s a gift, really.”

Despite everything, Charlie chuckles at this. And for a moment, just a few short seconds, everything is perfect. Then he blinks, and feels the bruise throbbing under his eye, and the laughter hurts those that are hidden on his stomach, and reality comes crashing down around him. The chuckling stops, and Charlie sighs quietly. He gingerly touches his cheek.

The light in Shaun’s eyes seems to fade. “That bruise…”

Charlie nods. “Yeah. I ran into a door?”

“Funny, Charlie. What happened to you?”

“I…” Charlie hesitates, remembering. “I got beat up.”

“Again, I did wonder.”

Charlie, fighting with himself to keep eye contact with Shaun now, carries on. “I went to a gay bar. I was curious, you know? Wasn’t really my scene, as it turns out. Although some of the men there…” he trails off, glances down at his wrist where the perfect circle of the cigarette burn is still an angry red. “Some of them were pretty… memorable.” Shaun raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Looking back up at Shaun, Charlie says, “But when I left the club, well. There were four of them. I know one was called David. And well, they knocked me on the ground, dragged me into an alley and kicked the shit out of me.” He closes his eyes, frowning, shuddering at the ghost of every punch and kick.

This time Shaun does touch Charlie’s face. He cups a hand under his jaw, lets his thumb trail carefully across the purple flesh of Charlie’s injured eye. Charlie shivers, eyes still closed, and reaches out for Shaun’s other hand. Shaun takes it willingly, and they remain locked in that position for a time, happy just to be. Charlie appreciates the support more than he can say, and so says nothing. Shaun respects the silence.

-

A psychologist’s practice room. The upright fan is broken, and the window is open, letting in a lukewarm breeze. The vertical blinds rustle as it blows past. Charlie wipes the sweat from his forehead and upper lip, and wishes the wind were strong enough to reach him across the room.

Today the psychologist is wearing a white tank top and a black, knee-length skirt. Her hair is pulled back into a loose pony tail. Charlie looks at the name plaque on her desk, and knows he should think of her as Maria, but it just feels far too personal. The psychologist bites her lower lip thoughtfully, rifling through some papers that are in a pile on her lap. Her pen rolls off her knees and onto the floor. She stretches down to pick it up, and her skirt rides up remarkably high. Charlie thinks that once that might have turned him on, but he genuinely isn’t sure anymore.

“Charles,” the psychologist says, “last week you told me about some bullying you did in high school. I am interested to know how you feel looking back on that. Was that the only time you bullied someone for being homosexual?”

Charlie focuses on the protrusion of the psychologist’s ankle bone, purposefully avoiding her eye as he says, “No. No it wasn’t.”

*

A school yard. It is three o’clock. The end of the school day has come, and students are filing out of classrooms all over the grounds, heading for cars and buses, eager to get home. Just outside the toilets near the English rooms, a wildly curly-haired youth has another, smaller boy backed against the brick wall. Charlie, and a peer from the year below him.

Charlie places one hand on the wall above the boy’s shoulder, and leans in towards him, faces hovering quite close together. The boy shrinks back and turns away from Charlie, refusing to look at him. Charlie narrows his eyes, forehead furrowing in a frown.

“You,” he snarls, voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I told you never to touch me again?”

“Uh…” the boy tries. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean -”

“Yes you did,” Charlie cuts him off. “Of course you meant to. You just can’t keep your filthy little homo hands to yourself.” The boy throws a quick glance at Charlie, and sees something burning hot and vicious in his eyes. Charlie leans in even closer, so near to the boy that their noses are almost touching. “I never want you to even so much as look at me, ever again. Got that?”

The boy nods, tears forming in his frightened eyes.

“Good,” Charlie growls. “Now piss off, faggot.”

-

A suburban street corner. It is a week since he threatened the young boy outside the toilets at school, and seventeen year old Charlie sits on a low stone wall at the front of someone’s house, breaking sticks and throwing the pieces onto the road. His long hair blows about in the wild autumn wind, whipping across his face. He pushes the curls back behind his ears and swings his legs back and forth, bored.

Coming down the street, at last, he sees him. The same sixteen year old who has been the victim of his previous attacks. Charlie has been waiting for him for half an hour. Now he smiles crookedly, deviously. And he jumps off the low wall, sliding his hands into his pockets, the picture of casual innocence.

The younger boy spots Charlie too late. He is less than ten metres away by the time he realises who it is who is standing on the corner, and by then he is well within Charlie’s range. The boy freezes like a deer in headlights, eyes locking with Charlie’s for a moment. Then he turns tail and runs.

Charlie is ready for this. He takes off after the boy, catching up with him further down the road. He grabs the boy by the back of the shirt, and yanks him backwards violently. The boy topples over, landing on his rear. Charlie lets out a gruff, breathy snap of laughter at this. He reaches down and takes up a fistful of the younger boy's mousey hair, and pulls on it sharply. The boy lets out a pained cry. Charlie releases his grip and the boy’s hair settles in a messy tuft, sticking straight up from his head.

The boy takes this opportunity to try and get to his feet, but Charlie, expecting an escape attempt, is far too quick for him. He slams his hands down on the boy’s shoulders, knocking him back to the ground. Then he slips his hands under the boy’s armpits, and drags him across the footpath and into a small cluster of trees by the side of the road.

Now completely hidden from passers-by, Charlie places one foot on the boy’s chest, keeping him in place on the grass. He fishes about in his pocket, then, searching for something. Soon after he smiles broadly, and, eyes glinting, withdraws a large Swiss army knife from its depths.

Knife in hand, Charlie bends over to bring himself face-to-face with the younger boy. He flicks the pocket knife attachment open, and waves it under the boy’s nose threateningly. The boy, trying to flatten his hair back down, stops suddenly and whimpers when he see it. He scoots backwards a few centimetres, eyes wide and fearful.

Charlie, still grinning devilishly, flicks the blade in and out a few times. He runs the knife across his fingertip, feeling the sharpness. Then he slides it slowly down the boy’s cheek, slicing into the soft pink flesh. Blood trickles from the open wound, over the silver blade, and onto Charlie’s fingers. Charlie wipes his hand on his trousers, switching the knife to his other hand.

“Wh-why are you doing this?” the boy stammers, tears streaming down his face.

“Because,” Charlie starts, taking the boy’s wrist in his hand and slicing a quick cut into the boy’s arm, “you’re a dirty little fag and you can’t keep your hands and eyes off me. I told you last week not to look at me again. But I saw you during English today, staring at me over your file. You make me sick.” He slices into the boy’s arm again and again, lining the cuts up one after the other, slowly and deliberately.

The boy is crying openly now, no care for appearances, too focussed on the pain to worry about anything else. Charlie cackles, and lets go of the boy’s wrist. Streaks of blood stain the boy’s arm and Charlie’s hand. Charlie spits on his palm and crouches down, wiping the blood off on the grass. He shoots a look at the sobbing boy, stands up, and slips out from the trees and onto the footpath. The Swiss army knife is pocketed, and he heads off down the street.

*

A psychologist’s practice room. The psychologist is writing in Charlie’s file, growing frustrated as the ink blots and spills in puddles all over the paper. Charlie watches her write, holding his breath until he feels dizzy. The hot, humid air hangs around his shoulders, thick and soupy. Eventually she finishes scrawling down notes, and looks up at him. Charlie assumes she is going to speak, but she doesn’t. She just looks at him pointedly until he does instead.

“I think,” Charlie muses quietly, “that assaulting that kid is the worst thing I have ever done in my life. You know I don’t even remember his name? But the feel of his blood on my hands is a strong as the day it happened. Funny the things we remember.” The psychologist nods along as Charlie talks, doing her best to look sympathetic. “I just never thought I’d be on the receiving end of any of that. I can remember the absolute pure hatred I felt. How good it was to punish that poor kid. And I never even had any proof he was gay. I hated him for the mere possibility that he was. God. I reckon I deserved to be beaten up.”

The small room falls into a deathly silence following Charlie’s spiel. The soupy air swallows every sound that tries to fight it’s way through. The psychologist smiles, a thin, drawn smile. “You didn’t deserve it, Charles. Nobody deserves to be beaten. You know that, deep down.”

“Yeah,” Charlie breathes.

“Is there anyone you can talk to about all this? I mean besides me. Any gay friends?”

Charlie sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, nods once, twice. “Yes,” he says, thinking of Josh and knowing that really, the psychologist must know already that Josh is a gay friend of his. But an uncomfortable feeling gurgles in his belly, and it presents as a facial expression which gives the psychologist her cue to move on.

“I want to talk about your alcohol consumption,” she says, changing the subject entirely. “How much would you say you drink, in the average week?”

*

A well-furnished lounge room. Everything is oak or brightly coloured, and looks expensive and very clean, the whole room bearing the mark of recent redecoration. Charlie sits on a deep red three seat couch, head propped in one hand, a glass of whisky in the other. Empty beer and cider bottles are spread out on the coffee table before him, some tipped over, dripping the last of their contents onto the unblemished oak surface.

His vision swims in and out of focus. This is the fifth night in a row. He is glad, as ever, that Claire is out of the house and can’t see him in such a state. Though he does sometimes miss having someone to get drunk with.

Charlie throws back the glass of whisky. It is just past eleven o’clock. The night is still relatively young, and Claire won’t be home for at least another hour. He pours another glass.

*

A psychologist’s practice room. Charlie repositions himself in his seat. The psychologist sniffs and taps her pen on his file over and over again.

“Since Robert? Two, maybe three drinks,” Charlie decides. “Once or twice a week.”

Without missing a beat, the psychologist replies, “You’re lying to me, Charles.”

Charlie folds his arms across his chest and doesn’t speak again.

-

A reflection. Charlie stands in front of the bathroom mirror several days later, poking gingerly at the healing bruise around his eye. It is less purple and more yellow, now, and hurts much less to touch.

With a sigh, Charlie picks up Claire’s foundation and begins the now daily task of smearing it under his eye to hide the evidence of his beating. It is more effective than he would have thought. Even Claire hasn’t noticed it as yet. Charlie hopes it stays that way.

-

An uncomfortable night’s sleep. That is what Charlie is experiencing, once again draped across the length of the deep red three seat couch in the lounge room. He tosses around in his half asleep state, snapping into consciousness as he rolls over and almost falls off the edge of the cushions.

As he starts awake, he becomes aware of another’s presence in the room. Charlie sits up, groggy and aching all over, and rubs his eyes. He looks around, and quickly spots Claire standing at the end of the couch, gazing down at him.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Uh, hey,” Charlie replies, sleepy and a little confused. He glances up at the wall clock, which reads five past two in the morning. “What are you doing out here?”

Claire smiles at him coyly. “I thought, maybe… Would you like to come to bed?”

Charlie’s sleep-addled brain and bone-aching body aren’t functioning well enough to read the vague suggestion behind the invitation. “Are you sure?” he asks her, yearning for a firm mattress beneath his sore back.

“Of course,” she responds. “I miss you, Charlie.”

And there it is again, the subtle hint that Charlie can’t quite comprehend. Simply grateful for the offer of a proper bed and a good night’s sleep, Charlie stumbles off the couch and trails after Claire into their bedroom.

He clambers straight into bed, pulling the sheets up to cover his otherwise bare chest. Claire takes a seat on her side of the queen sized mattress, and looks across at him as he turns onto his side.

“Charlie,” she says at length, shocking him out of sleep for the second time that night. “Charlie. I’m sorry.”

“Hm?” Charlie grunts, rolling over onto his other side to face in Claire’s direction.

“I’m sorry. For everything. God, I… I’ve been so stupid.”

Charlie sighs, and pushes himself into a sitting position. “It’s fine,” he murmurs. “Forget it.”

“No,” says Claire, “I can’t just forget it. I’ve been really unfair. I need… I need to make it up to you.”

She stands up and walks around to Charlie’s side of the bed, sitting back down beside him. Charlie watches as she slips her satin dressing gown off, letting it crumple on the bed around her hips, and leans in close to him. She captures his lips in a kiss that Charlie is not at all ready for.

Pulling away, Claire says, “There’s something I want to do for you.”

Charlie simply stares, wide-eyed, flushed and feeling awkward, as Claire lifts the hem of her nightdress, pulling it over her head. Her naked skin shines pale in the darkness.

“Claire -”

She interrupts him with another kiss. Charlie frowns slightly as she runs her tongue across his lips, begging entrance. He acquiesces in the end, and Claire slips her tongue between his teeth, running it over Charlie’s own.

After several seconds the kiss ends. Claire stands, picking up her dressing gown and discarding it on the carpeted floor. She heads back to her side of the bed once again, and climbs gracefully onto the mattress above the covers. Charlie shifts uncertainly, turning slightly to face her.

“Claire,” he tries again. “What -”

“Shhh,” Claire hushes. She slides over to him, bare arms brushing against his. And she smiles, somehow angelic and devious at the same time. Charlie gulps back the rest of his sentence and simply stares, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Claire, still smiling that contradictory smile, dips her head and licks a trail from Charlie’s collarbone to his jaw.

Charlie tilts his head back, pulling away from her. “What are you doing?” he finally manages to ask.

Claire doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m giving you something I know you’ve always wanted from me.”

With that, she snakes her hand down his chest and stomach, playfully cupping at his groin. Then she kisses him again, quickly, before backing away, taking the bed sheets with her, pulling them off Charlie’s boxer-clad body. Claire’s fingers curl around the waistband of his boxer shorts, and she slowly slides them down, stretching them over his rear and dragging them down his thighs.

Charlie allows her to do all this, unsure how to react. It isn’t until Claire ducks her head and takes his cock into her mouth that he gasps, softly, just a small inhalation of warm night air. Claire smiles again at this reaction, and runs her tongue up his length. Charlie shivers, suddenly very cold despite the humid summer night. This is the first time Claire has ever touched him like this, but, almost unsurprisingly, Charlie finds he feels almost nothing.

Claire works his cock with her teeth and tongue, trying to coax it to hardness. Charlie, however, wriggles uncomfortably and experiences only a few sparks of arousal. Semi-erect, he closes his eyes, rests his head back against the wall, and sighs loudly.

Claire lifts her head, an air of confusion floating about her. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s… nothing,” Charlie says, opening his eyes and breathing in deeply through his nose. “Just, can you not? Do that?”

Claire sits back, legs folded beneath her, and rests her hands on her knees. “I don’t get it, Charlie. You’ve bugged me about this since our wedding night. What’s changed?”

“Me.”

Claire scoffs. “What the Hell is that supposed to mean?”

Grabbing the sheets, covering himself up again, Charlie shrugs. “It means I don’t want that from you anymore. I don’t want… _anything_ from you,” he admits, realising the truth of this at last.

Claire climbs off the bed, reaches down to pick up her discarded dressing gown and slips it on, tying it at the waist. She faces away from Charlie for a few silent moments, before turning on her heel and glaring at him with fire in her eyes. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Keeping his eyes locked with Claire’s, Charlie frowns. “What’s wrong with _me_? I haven’t exactly been sleeping on the couch out of choice, you know. And I didn’t _ask_ you to go down on me. That’s all you.”

“You really _have_ changed,” Claire huffs. Charlie shrugs again, and Claire scowls. “This was a stupid idea. I don’t know why you’re so frigid all of a sudden. It’s like you’re fucking queer or something.”

“Yeah,” Charlie shoots back, “it’s just like that. And what’s it to you if I am?”

Mildly taken aback, Claire recovers quickly. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m a great big fairy.”

To his surprise, Claire actually laughs. “Right,” she says, rolling her eyes. But Charlie stares at her, expression fixed and firm, until her eyes widen and she gapes, open mouthed. “No… But…”

It is Charlie’s turn to laugh. Just a slight chuckle, not reaching his eyes.

Claire’s face contorts into an expression of fierce indignation. “Get out,” she spits at him, “get out.”

Charlie sniffs, reaches under the covers to pull his boxer shorts back up, and clambers out of bed. He leaves the sheets tangled, and Claire arms folded and furious, and makes for the lounge room. Once there, he flops down on the couch, takes hold of his blanket, and covers himself completely with it, head to toe.

While he waits for sleep to take hold, Charlie counts his breaths and forces himself not to think of Claire, alone and fuming in the bedroom. Tomorrow, he decides, he will head to a hotel.

-

A phone call. Charlie sits, hunched over and heart beating heavily in his chest, on a hotel bed. He listens to the dial tone, counting the rings, tapping his foot on the cream coloured carpet. Finally, after what is surely an eternity, Josh picks up.

“Hello?” comes the remarkably accented voice.

“Josh. Hey man. It’s Charlie.”

“Charlie!” Josh sounds both pleased and a little surprised. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been… Uh, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

The tone of Josh’s voice turns to one of concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine.” Charlie breathes out slowly. “Jeez, no. I‘m not. I don‘t know what the Hell I‘m saying.”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

Josh pauses. Then, “What’s going on? You sound kind of messed up.”

“Thanks,” Charlie huffs.

Josh quirks his lips and shrugs, though Charlie can’t see him. “Sorry, I guess. But seriously, are you alright?”

“No,” Charlie says at length. “I’m not alright. I’m staying at a hotel. And I’m supposed to tell you… but I… I… fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s cool, Charlie. It’s cool. Take your time.”

Charlie simply breathes for several minutes, not saying a word. His breaths come shaky and shallow, rattling down the phone line. Each one sends a jolt of worry through Josh.

“Charlie?”

The next sound that greets Josh’s ears is the beeping that lets him know Charlie has hung up.

-

A hotel room. On the large bed in the centre of the room sits Charlie. He is semi-reclined, back propped up against an assortment of pillows, head resting against the headboard. In his right hand is an almost empty bottle of vodka, which he sips from intermittently. In his left hand, he holds a rolled joint. Smoke from the joint streams towards the ceiling, mingling with the sticky air and billowing back into Charlie’s face. He coughs, and takes another swig of vodka.

Once the bottle is finished, and the joint smoked down, Charlie slips down the tower of pillows, lying back fully on the bed. His head lolls to one side, and he blinks quickly, over and over. A shower, he decides suddenly, seems like a good idea.

Charlie pushes himself back into a seated position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His head spins as he rights himself, and he shakes it softly. As he gets to his feet, his vision blurs, and he stumbles forward, stomach lurching. He catches himself against the wall, gagging slightly. Then, steadying himself, Charlie makes his way to the ensuite bathroom.

He shakily turns the cold tap in the shower, letting the water gush, then over compensates for the harsh flow by turning the hot top on twice as hard. Charlie strips down, leaving his clothes strewn across the bathroom floor, and climbs into the shower. He lets the steaming hot water crash down around him, revelling in the feel of it, tiny bullets stinging his skin.

The mirror fogs up quickly, and Charlie loses himself in the sensation of the water.

-

A hotel hallway. Josh stands outside room 316, hand raised to knock on the door, frozen in uncertainty. From inside the room, Josh can hear the shower running. He pauses for a few moments more, than finally knocks, four times, loudly.

There passes an anxious few minutes in which nothing happens; the shower remains running, and Josh feels his stomach flip. Then the door creeps open, revealing Charlie, hair dripping wet, but body fully clothed. Somewhere inside Charlie knows he should be surprised to see Josh, but all he can manage is a sort of blank faced amusement.

“How did you find me?” he asks, leaning against the door frame so as not to tumble over.

Josh shrugs. “You said you were staying at a hotel. I went to the closest one to your house and asked if you were staying there. They told me which room you were in. I don’t think they’re really supposed to, but maybe they recognised me and figured I wasn’t a stalker or anything.”

Charlie laughs, a full bodied, carefree laugh. An overreaction, certainly. Josh raises an eyebrow at his friend, questioning. Charlie just coughs and stops laughing. Rivulets of water trickle down from his hair and dampen his shoulders and chest. Josh watches one as it spreads through the fabric of Charlie’s shirt, over his nipple and down his abdomen before drying out.

They stand there, not speaking, for a short while. Then Charlie straightens up and steps to the side. “Come in?”

Josh nods, and walks into the hotel room, eyes scanning the small space. He takes in the perfectly made bed, the stack of pillows at the head of it, the open suitcase on the carpet, and the towels scattered on the floor in the bathroom, just visible past the open ensuite door.

Charlie follows Josh into the room, going to the bed and sitting on the end of it. Josh stands, hands on his hips, by the open window. A humid breeze blows in, ruffling Josh’s already messy hair.

“Why’re you here?” Charlie asks, eyeing Josh suspiciously.

Josh cocks his head to the side. “You freaked me out on the phone earlier. I wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you? Okay, I mean?”

Charlie bows his head, cupping it in his hands, massaging his temples.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Josh concludes. Looking up at him, Charlie feels his head spin. Josh lets his arms fall by his side, and he takes several steps forward. “You wanted to tell me something on the phone. What was it, Charlie?”

Charlie studies Josh’s worried face for a moment, before standing up slowly, carefully, trying to remain stable. He sweeps across the room quickly, stumbling at the last moment and shoving his hands out to the window sill to steady himself. Then he turns to Josh, a crooked smile plastered on his face. “What was it?” He shakes his head, attempting to clear it. Then he actually giggles.

Josh looks at him, eyebrows raised. “… Charlie?”

Charlie continues giggling for a little while, ignoring Josh’s concerned questioning. After a time he reigns in the laughter and recovers enough to walk the few metres to Josh’s side. He reaches out a somewhat shaky hand and touches it to Josh’s shoulder. “Hey,” he says.

“Hi?” Josh replies.

Charlie increases the strength of his grip on Josh’s shoulder, digging his fingers in around the bone. “Whassup?” he slurs.

An ever more concerned Josh winces as Charlie squeezes his shoulder tightly. Then he says, slowly, “Charlie. Seriously. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Charlie says. “What’s going on with you?”

Josh sighs dramatically. “I -”

He is cut off by Charlie, who puts a finger to Josh’s lips in order to hush him. Charlie, finger pressed against Josh’s mouth, then says, “You know, I like your eyes. They’re really pretty.”

“Wha -”

But Charlie shakes his head, no. He leans in, close, so close to Josh’s face, and smiles again. Josh notes that Charlie’s eyes are bloodshot and glassy. As Charlie exhales, Josh smells the scent of alcohol on the man’s breath.

“You’re drunk,” he mumbles, words smothered by Charlie’s finger.

“Am not.”

“I can smell it,” Josh argues.

Charlie removes his finger from Josh’s lips and bumps their foreheads together gently. “And I can smell _you_ ,” he counters. “You smell nice.” Josh takes a few wavering steps backwards, but Charlie meets them pace for pace. He presses his forehead against Josh’s again, and whispers in a deep, breathy voice, “I’d quite like to kiss you.”

Josh whimpers, almost inaudibly, a million thoughts racing through his head. Charlie’s smiling face is just centimetres from his own and the barely-there scent of vodka wafts around them. Josh opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words escape his lips. He stands stock still and unspeaking as Charlie grazes a hand up his forearm. The hand comes to rest at the crook of Josh’s elbow, the other still on the man’s shoulder, gripping tightly.

“Uh,” Josh tries, the only sound he can manage.

Charlie blinks several times, hard. He tilts his head to the side, still grinning stupidly, and closes the gap between the two of them, rubbing his nose over Josh’s once, twice. “Kiss me,” he growls. His bloodshot eyes glisten in the dim hotel room light.

Josh crumbles at Charlie’s command, and he juts his chin forward, pressing his lips to Charlie’s in a chaste kiss. At the first touch Charlie stiffens, increasing the strength of his grip on Josh’s elbow and shoulder, and crushes his mouth back against Josh’s fiercely. He pushes Josh backwards until the man’s back is pressed to the curtained window. Josh doesn’t fight, simply matches every step, warming up to the kiss and clamping his hands on Charlie’s hips.

“Hey again,” Charlie says, pulling away just a fraction.

“Mmh,” Josh mumbles, leaning back in for another kiss.

Charlie is quick to move things forward, one hand leaving Josh’s shoulder and shifting to cup his jaw, the other sliding from Josh’s elbow to his waist, where it tugs at the fabric of his cardigan, lifting it to expose creamy pale flesh. Charlie can feel his head and stomach churning. He steadfastly ignores the twin sensations, and focuses on the touch of his sturdy fingers to the soft skin of Josh’s belly. Josh squirms at the light pressure of Charlie’s fingertips, and fights the urge to laugh.

“Ch-Charlie!”

Charlie tickles him purposefully, and Josh wriggles away. Charlie follows him, and slides his hands up Josh’s shirt, grabbing him by the hips. He crushes his lips to Josh’s in a bruising fourth kiss, which Josh returns eagerly. His tongue delves into Josh’s mouth, tangling with Josh’s own. For a minute or two they remain, enjoying kiss after kiss, until Charlie takes Josh’s hand and leads him across the room to the bed.

Josh is backed up to the mattress, and Charlie holds him by the hem of his cardigan, keeping him from falling. After a few moments Charlie grins wickedly, glassy eyes flashing mischief, and he grunts, throwing Josh backwards onto the bed.

Josh lands with a dull thump on the soft mattress, arms flung out at odd angles. He lifts his legs up onto the bed after him, bending them at the knees. Charlie licks his lips. Then he clambers clumsily onto the bed, positioning himself on his knees between Josh’s bent legs. He places his hands on Josh’s shins and straightens up, looking down the length of Josh’s lanky form to smile and wink at him. Josh smiles back a little uncertainly. He looks about to speak, but Charlie interrupts him by parting Josh’s legs further and crawling up his body until they are chest to chest. The weight of Charlie on top of him squeezes the breath out of Josh, and all words are forgotten.

“Don’t talk,” Charlie says pointlessly.

“Can’t,” Josh pants. He can manage nothing more, but struggles under Charlie until Charlie gets the hint and rolls off him and onto the mattress. Josh breathes in deeply, and turns onto his side to face Charlie, propping his head up on his hand. “Jesus Charlie, you weigh a tonne,” he teases.

Charlie seems to find this rather amusing, and he erupts into giggles again. When he eventually quiets down, he follows Josh’s lead and rolls onto his side, coming face to face with the other man. “Where were we?”

“I don’t -” Josh begins, but is cut off once again when Charlie strokes his cheek fondly and shuffles in close to kiss him. Josh is immediately caught up in it, and takes the opportunity to explore Charlie’s mouth with his tongue, feeling out the warmth and wetness. He tastes several different types of alcohol, and wrinkles his nose at the combined flavour. There is something else too, something smoky and almost bitter, which Josh can’t quite place.

They part briefly, just long enough for Charlie to climb back onto Josh, straddling his hips this time. Then they come together again, lips brushing lips, and cheeks and jaws. Charlie kisses his way down Josh’s neck, stopping to suck at his throat and his collar bone.

Still perched on top of Josh, Charlie pulls away from the man’s collar and focuses his attention on removing Josh’s cardigan and then his shirt. The cardigan is unbuttoned by firm but unsteady hands, and the shirt pulled and stretched up over Josh’s head. Josh glances down at his naked torso self-consciously, but Charlie runs his fingers down the smooth skin of Josh’s chest, and Josh looks back up to meet his gaze.

As he watches, Charlie hastily removes his own t-shirt and tosses it over his head, where it lands in a heap on the carpet. Charlie places one hand on Josh’s chest and the other on the bed beside him, wrist in contact with Josh’s ribcage. And he slowly, ever so slowly drags his hips forward, grazing his pelvis against Josh’s, eliciting a soft sigh from the younger man. Once he hears this sound, Charlie has all the encouragement he needs to carry on, hips rubbing forcefully down onto Josh. He can feel Josh’s growing hardness beneath him, and is vaguely aware of his own erection pressing uncomfortably on the inside of his jeans. He pauses for a moment, trailing his hand down from Josh’s chest to his crotch, palming at the front of his trousers.

Josh bucks up into Charlie’s hand, breathing shakily. Then, finally, he manages to speak. “Charlie,” he chokes between breaths, “what are we doing?”

Charlie stills his hand, and gazes down at Josh’s frowning, slightly flushed face. He chuckles, and leans down for yet another kiss, soft and tender this time. Then he wriggles sideways off of Josh, and starts unbuttoning the man’s pants.

“Charlie,” Josh says again, but he is ignored.

Charlie tugs at Josh’s trousers and briefs, and Josh instinctively raises his hips so he can pull them all the way down. His lean legs kick out to aid Charlie in removing his pants completely, and they are tossed to the floor. Charlie leers hungrily at Josh’s now naked body. There is a pink blemish on his left hip, and if possible, Josh’s thighs are even paler than the rest of him. Charlie also notes the two bright red suction marks on the column of Josh’s throat, proof of his presence.

Also making its presence known is the pooling heat in Charlie’s groin. His already tight jeans have become uncomfortably so, and he makes the reasonable decision to remove them. He stands unsteadily on the bed and undoes the button, then unzips the fly. Then his jeans are peeled slowly down his legs, and he is for all intents and purposes stripping for Josh.

Once his pants and underwear have been flung carelessly off the side of the bed, Charlie kneels back down beside Josh, and leans right in close to his ear, Josh’s hair tickling his face. “I’m going to fuck you, now,” he whispers, voice hoarse and growling. Josh whimpers, and nods, lost for another reaction.

Charlie reaches over to the bedside table where his wallet sits, and grabs it. He quickly flips it open and grabs a small foil packet from the coin pocket, then throws the wallet the way of all their clothes, onto the floor. He scoots back to his previous position between Josh’s slightly parted legs, sitting back on his heels. Charlie tears the foil packet open and removes the condom, which he waves out for Josh to see, before slowly rolling it down the length of his cock. Then there is an awkward pause.

Unprepared and lacking lubrication, Charlie is uncertain. “Uh, Josh?”

“Mh?”

“How do I… I mean… I don’t have…” His cheeks blush crimson as he stammers his way through half a sentence.

Josh picks up on his meaning though. “Use spit,” he instructs. “It won’t be as good, but it’ll work.”

Charlie nods, just once, and the blush drains from his face, along with all the rest of his colour. He works up the saliva in his mouth, then spits into his hand.

The preparation is slow and clumsy, Charlie fumbling his way through whilst trying to maintain a sense of control. His fingers work inside Josh, stretching and warming, and Josh twists and sighs beneath him.

“Ready?” Charlie grunts, face still colourless and full of worry.

“Yeah,” Josh breathes.

Charlie withdraws his fingers, and wipes them on the crisp bed sheets. He shuffles in closer to Josh, who lifts his legs, wrapping them around Charlie’s middle. He spits in his hand again, and slicks the saliva over his cock. And he carefully pushes forward, face tied up in knots of intense concentration, sliding into Josh millimetres at a time.

Once fully inside him, Charlie feels absurdly powerful. It is one of the strangest sensations he has ever experienced, being inside another man, and he revels in it for a few minutes, the colour slowly returning to his cheeks. Then, when he has grown comfortable with the feeling, he pulls out again most of the way.

He pauses another few moments, before rocking his hips forward again, thrusting gently into Josh. Josh’s legs squeeze around him as he slides in again, and his face contorts into a bizarre expression of pleasure. Charlie’s blurry eyes see Josh’s reactions muted through a watery haze. He is used to drunken sex, however, and it does not deter him.

They soon pick up a steady rhythm, Charlie thrusting with nervous and unpractised excitement, Josh squirming under him, gasping and moaning quietly.

Sweat beads on Charlie’s forehead and drips from his face. His chest is damp too, and he can feel the perspiration trickling down his back. Josh as well has sweat streaking his body, his legs on Charlie’s hips leaving slick patches of damp.

“G-God, Charlie,” Josh manages to moan.

Charlie smiles, a twisted expression on his otherwise fiercely serious face. And he picks up speed, rocking his hips forward with vigour, enjoying the feeling of Josh writhing at his ministrations.

Josh comes without warning several minutes later. The sticky white liquid lashes a trail up Charlie’s stomach, and Charlie groans as Josh tightens around him. He continues his uneasy thrusts, until finally he comes too, maybe even murmuring Josh’s name as he does so, although any memory of this act is forgotten as soon as he is fully spent.

When they are both drained and boneless, Charlie pulls out of Josh for the final time, all the way now, and collapses on the mattress beside him. Josh rolls to face him, and removes Charlie’s condom with one quick motion, then ties it and tosses it on the floor. Charlie curls one arm across Josh’s chest, hand gripping gently under his armpit, fingers resting amidst the soft hair.

“I was going to tell you,” Charlie says suddenly, breaking the silence. “On the phone, I was going to say…” Josh nuzzles his head into the crook of Charlie’s neck, and bites carefully at the skin there, encouraging him to continue. Charlie sighs. “I think I’m gay.”

Josh nods against Charlie’s neck, and says, “It’s okay you know.”

“Yeah,” Charlie replies, “I know.”

Later, much later, Charlie wakes up, stomach churning with renewed ferocity. He uncurls himself from Josh’s sleeping body, and climbs out of bed, stumbling to the toilet.

Josh wakes soon after, to the sound of Charlie retching and heaving in the bathroom. He opens his eyes and looks to the side, realising Charlie is no longer on the bed with him, and he groans quietly as the evening’s events play out again in his mind.

Sitting up, Josh massages his forehead, willing away the beginnings of a headache. He listens to Charlie’s vomiting for a minute, then stands up and scavenges around for his clothing, though is unable to find his underwear. Josh gets dressed quickly, and makes for the door, slipping out into the hall before Charlie can see him leave.

When Charlie does finally re-enter the room, eyes watering and head pounding, he barely even notices he is alone.

-

A buzzing mobile phone. The phone is currently in the pocket of Charlie’s jeans, which still lie discarded on the floor. The number on the display would be familiar to Charlie, but he sleeps through, the gentle buzzing not loud enough to alert him to the call.

On the other end, the psychologist, Maria, wills Charlie to pick up. He is half an hour late for his 9:30 appointment already, and though her day isn’t full, she prefers to keep on schedule. It’s good to be professional when one can. She clicks her pen a few times, waiting as the call rings out, then hangs up the phone, disappointed.

-

A hangover. One of the worst Charlie can recall, and it claws at the inside of his skull, beating and bruising his weary head. His gut is full of acid and a lead weight sits on his chest.

The first thing Charlie notices after the initial pain and discomfort, is his nakedness. Funny, he thinks, as he prefers to sleep in boxer shorts, and can’t remember the last time he went to bed naked.

Blinking heavily in the morning light and wishing he had closed the blinds on the window the night before, Charlie also notes the tangled sheets and the slight indent in the pillow beside him. He looks around the room, scanning the carpet and spying his clothes scattered in various places each side of the bed. Something catches his eye that doesn’t seem quite right, too. He stumbles out of bed and over to the pair of underwear tangled up underneath his t-shirt. The small, pale blue briefs certainly aren’t his own.

As the memory of the previous night washes over him, Charlie falls to his knees, burning them on the carpet. He can see Josh clearly in his mind’s eye, stretched out naked on the bed. Sweating and writhing. Moaning and whispering Charlie’s name. The sickness in his stomach redoubles, and he gets awkwardly to his feet, hurrying to the bathroom to throw up.

When he returns to the main room, Charlie gathers up his clothing and tosses it on the bed. He then rummages through his suitcase, picking out clean black jeans, a red t-shirt, and some underwear. Charlie gets dressed slowly, trying his best to ignore the pain in his head and the queasiness in his stomach. Once he is fully clothed, he goes back to his suitcase in search of pain killers.

He finds a couple of boxes full of ibuprofen, and pops two out of their foil, swallowing them dry. Not sure what else to do whilst waiting for the medicine to take effect, Charlie takes his laptop computer out of the suitcase too, and sets it up on the bed.

While the computer boots up, he hears a faint buzzing sound from nearby. Charlie realises it is coming from the pile of clothes on the end of the bed, and he leans over to them, searching the pockets until he finds his mobile phone. The screen informs him he has one missed call. The number, his psychologist’s. His appointment, he remembers now, too late, was several hours ago.

Putting the missed appointment out of his mind, Charlie turns back to his laptop, connecting it to the internet and opening his email. He skims through the subject lines of the first twenty or so messages, noting the familiar senders - Carrie, Dave, his friend Tricia, his mother - and the unfamiliar ones; several instances of spam, and one email from someone called David Humphries, with the startling subject line ‘Hello poof’.

Going against his better judgement, Charlie caves to curiosity and clicks on the message. It loads speedily, bringing up five bold, italicised and underlined words, followed by a short explanation.

 _ **I’m gonna kill you, faggot.**_  
I beat you up once, but you got off too easy. Next time I see you, you’re dead.

-

A fancy townhouse. Shaun greets Josh at the front door, inviting him inside. He can tell from the way Josh’s brow is furrowed and he doesn’t meet Shaun’s eyes, that something is wrong.

The two of them walk down the hallway in silence, Josh looking around at the pictures on the walls, not really taking them in. Shaun leads him to the end of the hall, and out into a large open-plan kitchen and dining area. His wife Leandra sits at a large wooden table in the dining room, reading a tattered, obviously much-loved book. She looks up as they enter.

“Josh! Hello sweetheart.”

Josh smiles slightly, and lifts his hand in a half-wave. “Hi.”

“I’ll put the kettle on, yeah?” Leandra says. “You two can go and talk in the lounge if you like. More comfortable in there.”

Shaun walks to Leandra’s side and places a soft kiss on the top of her head. Then he motions for Josh to follow him, and they head out of the kitchen and dining area, into a surprisingly small lounge room. Here they choose seats on opposing sofas, and sink into them, facing each other.

“So, Josh,” Shaun begins, “what brings you here?”

“It’s…” Josh pauses, glances away from Shaun and around the room briefly. “It’s Charlie.”

There is a faint hint of something in Shaun’s eyes, something like knowing, as if he is not at all surprised. “What happened?”

Josh stares adamantly at the floor as he says, “He… We… had sex.”

Still, Shaun seems unfazed. This comforts Josh somewhat, and he manages after a time to meet Shaun’s gaze again, though there is a vague pinkness to his cheeks. Leandra appears at this moment, two cups of tea in her hands, and she gives one each to Shaun and Josh. Josh accepts his gratefully, and blows into it, trying to cool it down, as Leandra leaves them alone once again.

“Are you alright?” Shaun asks, and Josh nods mutely. Shaun raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

Biting his lip, Josh changes his mind, and shakes his head instead. “No. I would be, but… Gosh. I, uh, I love him, Shaun. So this should be great. But he was really drunk, and I don’t know if he actually meant any of it.”

Now, at last, Shaun’s calm expression turns serious. “I think maybe we should go and see him. What do you think?”

Josh’s face contorts in a mixture of apprehension and worry. “I don’t know…”

But Shaun has decided already. “We’re going. Both of us. Come on.”

Reluctantly, Josh gets up from the comfortable hold of the sofa, abandoning his still steaming tea, and follows Shaun back into the dining area and then into the hall. Leandra bids them a surprised goodbye as they march past her.

“I’ll drive,” Shaun offers as they head out the front door.

-

A hotel hallway. The door of room 316 looms before Josh and Shaun, who stand together, one feeling anxious, the other concerned. Charlie has not answered his phone any of the three times Shaun tried to call him before they headed to the hotel, and this has done nothing to hamper the man’s worry.

Josh and Shaun can hear a tap running, and music playing too loudly on the other side of the door. Shaun looks at Josh, and nods at him, before knocking hard several times. When after thirty seconds there is no answer, they begin to panic.

In the end Shaun ventures down to the lobby, and, after some smooth talking to the receptionist, successfully procures a key card to Charlie’s room. He returns to the third floor, where Josh is pacing, curling and uncurling his fists. As soon as Josh spots him, he freezes mid-step, arms folding in front of his chest, face twisted in nervousness. Shaun produces the key card and swipes it through the sensor box. The door clicks open, and the two of them push their way into the room.

Inside 316, Charlie is sprawled haphazardly on the double bed. The tap in the bathroom sink is running and the water has overflowed, trailing across the tiled floor and seeping into the carpet. Shaun hurries to turn it off, while Josh rushes to Charlie’s side.

Josh moves the pile of clothes next to Charlie’s prone form, and sits down beside him. Shaun joins him moments later, standing at the foot of the bed. They each glance about the room, picking out the important details of the scene. Charlie’s laptop computer, open on the bed. The empty foils of ibuprofen on the bed and floor. The near-empty mini bar, and the drained bottles of alcohol scattered on the carpet.

“Charlie?” Shaun tries, but there is no response.

Josh prods the man gently in the ribcage, but Charlie doesn’t so much as flinch. “Shaun…” Josh trails off, voice heavy with fear.

Moving quickly, Shaun pulls his mobile phone from his pants pocket and dials the emergency services number. He is put through to an ambulance operator shortly after. Whilst he provides details of their location to the operator, Josh leans over Charlie’s body, massaging his head carefully.

Shaun hangs up a minute later, and Josh looks up at him, eyes glazed with tears. Saying nothing, but somehow everything, Shaun steps closer to him and places one hand on Josh’s shoulder, the other on Charlie’s leg. They remain locked in that position, nobody daring to speak, until Charlie’s computer catches Josh’s eye again. He cocks his head towards it, and Shaun moves to pick it up. He flips it fully open, and waits while the screensaver turns off. When he sees the offending email still displayed in bright, bold font, he can do little more than gape open-mouthed at the screen.

“What is it?” Josh asks, noting the minor alterations in Shaun’s expression.

Shaun simply turns the computer towards him, showing him David Humphries’ threatening message. Josh too, then, is rendered speechless.

As the reasoning for it all, the empty pill packets and glass bottles, Charlie’s unconscious form on the bed, unfolds in their minds, Shaun and Josh can manage nothing but to stare at each other, and at the email, re-reading it over and over.

Eventually, Shaun speaks. “How was he yesterday? Was there any sign of… any of this?”

Then Josh. “No. I mean, he told me he was gay. I thought… I thought he was okay. Or just dunk. Or something. I never realised… Oh my God. Shaun, what if he’s not alright?”

Shaun manages a thin-lipped smile. “He’ll pull through. It’s Charlie, after all. We both know he’s not the type to give up.”

Josh just stares at Charlie’s blank face, and lets his brimming tears fall.

-

A psychologist’s practice room. It is just over a week since Josh and Shaun discovered Charlie unconscious in the hotel room, and he is explaining the entire ordeal to the psychologist. She listens patiently, scrawling down notes as he speaks, as per usual.

Charlie pauses in his tale, and puffs his cheeks up, feeling them turn red as he prepares to make a confession he knows is important. He finally lets out a sigh and says, “I had sex with Josh.”

The psychologist keeps an air of professional calm about her. “How did it happen?” she asks him.

“I was drunk. And… high,” Charlie admits.

“And how do you feel about him now?”

There is a long silence while Charlie considers this. “I don’t know,” he says at length.

“Have you talked to him about it?”

*

A hospital. Charlie sits propped up in a crisp, white-sheeted bed, Josh on a comfortable chair beside him.

“Why didn’t you call me when you got it?” Josh asks quietly. “The hate mail, I mean.”

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Yeah, well, great job you did of that. Shaun and I almost needed an ambulance ourselves when we saw you.”

Charlie frowns. “I’m sorry.”

There pass a few moments of silence. Then, “Charlie, are you really gay?”

“It’s not that simple, Josh,” Charlie says, shaking his head a little.

“Why?” There is genuine curiosity in Josh’s voice.

“You know how hard it was for you to come out? How long it took?” Charlie starts, looking at Josh pointedly, eyes glistening. “I’m ten years older than you. I’ve been married all this time. I am… I mean, I was… I - I used to beat up the gay kid at school.” Josh watches as the gleam in Charlie’s eyes turns to tears, and the man starts to cry. “Then I got beaten up myself,” he says, and Josh’s eyes widen in surprise. Charlie touches under his eye where the bruise had once been. “It made me realise just how hard this is. I’ve been punishing myself for months, for being the exact person I used to hate. How is _that_ simple?”

Josh blinks. “Oh.”

And Charlie sighs. “I need some sleep.”

*

A psychologist’s practice room. Charlie can feel the air, heavy about his shoulders, thick with moisture. He scratches his nose absently, and looks at his feet. The psychologist smiles a real, warm smile.

“It’s obvious he cares about you,” she says.

“He told me he loved me, end of last year,” Charlie reveals, surprising himself somewhat. It wasn’t something he had been planning to tell the psychologist, or anyone else. Once it is out in the open, however, the air around him suddenly seems lighter.

The psychologist presses on. “And what did you say?”

“… Nothing,” Charlie admits.

“It seems to me that you definitely need to work out how you feel about him. He’s such an important part of your life.”

“Yeah,” says Charlie, “I’ll try.”

-

A television studio. The cast and guests of Talkin’ ‘Bout Your Generation are in between takes, and have been granted a fifteen minute break from recording. Charlie uses this opportunity to escape the set and the numerous worried glances from Josh, and head into one of the studio’s corridors. Thankfully, Josh does not see him depart, and so cannot follow him. Someone who does notice, though, is Amanda. She slips away, excusing herself from a conversation with one of the camera operators, a takes off after Charlie. She finds him leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, head bowed.

“Charlie,” she calls softly, casually, as she approaches. He looks up, meeting her eye briefly, and nods to acknowledge her presence. “Mind if I join you?” Amanda asks. He shakes his head, and so she leans against the wall beside him. She lets a few seconds tick by without words while she tries to figure out what to say next. Eventually she goes with, “Is everything okay?”

As soon as she has said it, Amanda wishes she could swallow it back up. The twisted look on Charlie’s face makes it obvious enough that no, everything is not okay. Also evidence is the way Josh has been acting for the past few hours, and the way Charlie has presented himself in return. She decides to broach this topic.

“So, Josh seems to be treading very carefully today. You too, actually. Care to fill me in?”

Charlie raises his eyebrow. “You sound like my therapist,” he says.

“You’re seeing a therapist?” Amanda asks, shock filtering through concern.

“Shit,” Charlie says, sighing. “Yeah. Look, don’t tell Josh, okay?”

“Seriously, what’s going on between you and Josh?“ Amanda wants to know. “You’ve both been acting ridiculous. It’s like you slept together and then you didn’t call him back.”

The is nothing but silence to meet this remark. Charlie looks suddenly sheepish, and he fiddles with the hem of his fitted t-shirt awkwardly.

“You didn’t!” Amanda exclaims.

“I was high,” says Charlie, as though this explains everything.

“Oh, Charlie… How did it even happen?”

“The sex, or me getting high?”

Amanda rolls her eyes. “Don’t be a smart arse”

“Now you sound like my mother.”

Amanda chooses to ignore this. “Charlie, really.”

And Charlie sighs again, before launching into his explanation. “After the first few serious arguments with Claire, I started… sleeping around. Women who I’d usually not look twice at. And I felt _nothing_. Then one night…” he trails off.

He expects Amanda to be confused, or disturbed. Instead she looks strangely overcome, and her voice is full of understanding when she says, “What was his name?”

“Robert,” Charlie replies wistfully, “and with him, it suddenly all made sense.”

“So how did you end up sleeping with Josh?” Amanda queries.

“He told me he loved me, last year,” Charlie tells her. “Before me and Claire started fighting. Before any of it. I called him a few days ago to try and talk about… about me, being gay, yeah? It didn’t go well. I hung up on him. So he came over to see me, make sure I was alright. I was pretty drunk by the time he arrived, and kind of stoned. I don’t know if he realised. But I’d been thinking about what he said, about him loving me, and whether I felt anything for him, and I didn’t know, but… well. I took advantage of him, didn’t I? Fuck, I’m a horrible person.”

Amanda takes a few moments to let Charlie’s words sink in. Then she says, “You’re not a horrible person, Charlie. You’re just confused. Do you know how you feel about him now?”

“That’s what my psych wants me to figure out. I mean, I like him, I really do. But is that it?” Charlie screws his face up in defeat. “I’ve got no idea.”

“Talk to him,” Amanda suggests.

“Mmm,” he says at length, “maybe I will.”

-

A dressing room. Josh’s, and Charlie is sitting in one of several chairs spaced about the room, waiting. Recording is only ten minutes over and Josh is still on set, mingling with the audience and the episode’s guests. Charlie fidgets nervously, picking at a loose thread in the stitching on the sleeve of his shirt.

The minute Josh arrives and sees Charlie sitting, waiting for him, his body language goes from carefree to hunched over and anxious, much as he has been between every take earlier on. There is also an element of surprise in his facial expression. Josh moves awkwardly into the room, closing the door and stopping just a few steps in, keeping his distance from Charlie. He lets Charlie speak first.

“I want to talk about the other night.”

Josh wrinkles his nose. “You mean, when we… had sex?”

“That’s the one.”

“What about it?”

“I took advantage of you,” Charlie informs him. “And I just wanted to say, I’m sorry.”

Josh studies Charlie seriously for a minute, taking a couple of steps closer to him. He tilts his head to one side, then the other, as if weighing up the options of how to respond. In the end he goes with, “It’s okay Charlie. I… had fun, you know?”

“Don’t you care that I was under the influence?”

Josh musses his hair with his hand and shrugs. “I guess? I don’t know. All I know is that I really like you, Charlie. I mean, I love you. I just want to know how you feel about me. Or if you’re even really gay. Because if you’re not, well, there’s not much point in me pursuing it, is there?”

Charlie smiles ever-so-slightly at this. “Oh, believe me. Definitely gay.”

“Are you sure?”

And so Charlie tells Josh about his fighting with Claire, and all the various women, and then Robert… “ - and I’ve never felt anything like it,” he finishes.

Josh, who has moved to sit on the arm of Charlie’s chair, has been staring at Charlie the whole time, rapt in his story. He now blinks heavily several times, realising it is suddenly his turn to speak. “It wasn’t like that for me,” he says. “There was no big moment of revelation. I’m almost jealous.” He smiles coyly. “But at least I found out before I was _old_.”

“Hey!” Charlie swipes his hand at Josh, cuffing him upside the head. Josh pouts playfully in response, but can’t hold the expression for long. Soon, both men are laughing, four eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Seriously though,” Josh says, once the laughter has died. He reaches over and touches Charlie’s forearm. Charlie feels goose bumps prickle into life, sweeping across his skin. “Just let me know. How you feel.”

Charlie swallows deeply, and nods.

-

A bustling Melbourne pub. The night is cool but somehow still humid, and Charlie wears a plaid elbow-length button-up shirt and black jeans. He sits right at the bar, elbows up on the counter, leaning forward over his beer, only his second of the night. His head is, and has been, plagued with thoughts of Josh, to the extent that Charlie can hardly focus on drinking. After six or seven days of racing thoughts and utter sobriety, though, Charlie has decided that a few drinks is both a safe and smart idea.

He is bringing his pint glass to his lips when he feels someone tap on his shoulder, and a voice say, “Charlie?”

Charlie turns his head. Just behind him stands Robert. The man’s white-blond hair is even longer than Charlie remembers, curling up at the bottom, where his neck meets his shoulders. His moss-green eyes are the same, though, and flickering with excitement.

“Hi,” Robert says, smiling widely at him.

“Hey,” Charlie replies hesitantly, memories of their last meeting playing through his mind.

“Your hair’s curly again,“ Robert points out, and Charlie runs a hand through his un-preened locks. “You’re looking good.”

“So are you,” Charlie says automatically. But it is true. Robert’s skin is almost glowing with health, he is clean-shaven, and he is wearing tight pants that fit like a second skin over the curve of his rear. Charlie can’t help but stare a little too long at this.

“So…” Robert trails, following Charlie’s line of vision and shuffling a little self-consciously.

“Mh?” Charlie’s eyes snap back to Robert’s face. “Oh. Can I buy you a drink?”

Robert accepts, and soon after the two are chatting amiably, Robert waving his hands about animatedly as he talks. Charlie nurses his beer for a while, then orders another, and it is the fewest amount of drinks he has had in a long time. Because of this, he cannot blame the alcohol when, an hour later, Robert suggests they leave the pub, and he almost instantly agrees.

On the footpath outside the pub, Robert takes Charlie’s hand in his own and leans in to kiss his temple. Charlie feels warmth spreading from the site of the kiss and through his face, pink rising in his cheeks. Then someone nearby yells, “Hey, faggots!” and Charlie is suddenly burning with anger. He glances around him, looking for the source of the insult, but Robert is pulling on his hand, dragging him away before he can properly respond.

Twenty metres down the road they flag a taxi, and Robert opens the door for Charlie. He then slides in beside him and gives the driver directions to a home address. They pull up outside a block of flats five minutes later.

In the back seat of the taxi, Robert is whispering dirty promises in Charlie’s ear. Charlie laughs quietly and blushes, and holds onto Robert’s hand tightly. The taxi driver looks over his shoulder at the two of them, and coughs. “Gentlemen,” he says loudly.

The two men cease their whispering and giggling, and Charlie looks up at the driver, then out of the window. “This it?”

“Yeah,” Robert replies. Then to the driver, he adds, “Thanks.”

Robert pays the fare, and the two of them climb out of the taxi. A chill breeze whips past, and Charlie shivers, so Robert takes his jacket off and offers it to him. Feeling like a teenage girl, Charlie accepts it, and although wearing it makes him uncomfortably warm, he can’t help but smile.

Robert leads Charlie inside the block of flats, and up a single flight of stairs to his apartment on the first floor. Inside is small but cosy. Robert has eclectic taste, and Charlie would bet that a majority of his furnishings were purchased from charity shops and antique stores. There is little time for looking around however, as Robert leans in and bites Charlie’s earlobe gently, then nudges him towards a door at the far end of the room which Charlie can only assume is the bedroom.

Charlie heads for the room without question, hand still entwined with Robert’s, the blond trailing after him. The door is slightly ajar, and Charlie can see that the antique design continues inside. He pushes into the room and drags Robert in after him. There are artworks all over the walls; reprints of Andy Warhol pieces, arty black and white photographs, even a detailed child’s crayon drawing of a cat that bears the message “To uncle Robert”.

“Nice,” Charlie comments offhandedly. “I like the cat.”

“My nephew, James,” supplies Robert. “He’s really into art.”

Charlie smiles as he feels Robert’s hands settle on his hips, and he turns around to face him. Without a word, Robert kisses him, tender and slow, and then again, more heatedly. The kisses quickly build to touches, fast and fierce, and Robert’s hands are sliding under Charlie’s shirt and over the smooth skin of his back.

Within moments they are stumbling towards the bed, Robert pulling his jacket off Charlie’s shoulders and tugging the man’s still-buttoned shirt up and over his head. Charlie presses himself up against Robert, the cotton of Robert’s tight t-shirt smooth and warm against his bare skin, and pushes just a little so that they both topple backwards and onto the soft mattress.

Charlie lands half on top of Robert, one hand clutching the man’s shirt, the other tangled in his shaggy blond hair. Robert makes an undignified grunting sound as Charlie falls on him, and wriggles his way to freedom. He watches as Charlie sits up, runs his hand through his hair, and looks at Robert with wanting in his eyes. Robert meets his gaze with a similarly wanton one, and Charlie smiles a little deviously. He continues to smile as Robert clambers gracelessly into his lap and pushes him back against a ridiculous amount of pillows. Then Robert kisses him, cool lips and warm tongue, fire and ice, and Charlie forgets how to use his hands.

He flails about for a moment, grabbing wildly at the sheets, at Robert’s t-shirt, at the air, before rediscovering the connection between his brain and his hands, and grasping Robert by the shoulder and around the hip. Robert breaks the kiss and snakes his own hands up Charlie’s chest and behind his neck, sliding them into the mess of curls that is Charlie’s hair. He entwines his fingers in the curls and tugs gently, and Charlie tightens his grip on Robert’s shoulder in response. They stare at each other wickedly, then, before crushing their mouths together in another kiss.

While he works his tongue against Charlie’s, Robert slips one hand down from Charlie’s hair and into the man’s lap. He palms heavily at Charlie’s crotch, firm and teasing at once, and Charlie shudders and presses forward into Robert’s touch.

Before long, Robert’s other hand leaves Charlie’s hair, and he is fumbling with the button of the man’s jeans. He gets it undone, and then the zip, and Charlie lifts his hips obligingly as Robert slides the jeans down his thighs. Then he grabs at Robert’s t-shirt, pulling it up at the hem, the material stretching as he struggles to remove it. Robert laughs sweetly, smothered by black cotton, and finally comes to Charlie’s aid, slipping the t-shirt off himself. The shirt is discarded, and Charlie pushes his jeans the rest of the way down his legs, kicking them off. They are left draped over the side of the bed.

Robert sits back in Charlie’s lap, the fingers of one hand trailing slowly back and forth through the line of hair below the man’s navel. All that separates the two of them is Charlie’s underwear and Robert’s pants.

“I have an idea,” Charlie says, and Robert makes a questioning noise, still playing with the tiny curls of Charlie’s pubic hair. “I think you should take off your pants,” Charlie suggests.

Robert splays his fingers out on Charlie’s belly, pressing the tips into his soft flesh just a little. “Good idea,” he says. And he gets to his feet on the bed, wobbling a little on the mattress, and starts unbuttoning his trousers. Charlie can see somewhere in his mind’s eye a flash of a hotel room, of himself standing much like Robert, on the bed, undoing his own pants. He blocks all thoughts of one sweet-faced blond from his mind, focusing instead on the now naked one in front of him.

Robert licks his lips and shakes his head, sending locks of shaggy blond hair flying around his face. A few strands stick to his moistened lips. He toes at the bed sheets, bunching them up and nudging his pants away at the same time. Then he looks down at Charlie through a fringe of tousled hair, and Charlie feels an aching in his gut.

“You,” says Robert. “Underwear. Off.”

Charlie obliges him willingly, thumbs disappearing below the waistband of his underpants and slowly dragging the garment down, freeing his erection and exposing himself fully to Robert. Robert waits until Charlie is completely naked, then drops to his knees on the bed before him. He locks eyes with Charlie, then, almost shyly, he reaches out and takes the man’s cock in his hand. Charlie sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, teeth clamping down on it, and closes his eyes. Robert starts up a slow stroking rhythm with the one hand, and reaches over to his bedside table and picks up a small tube of lubricant in the other. He then drops the lubricant on the bed and focuses for a time on working Charlie’s cock in his hand, wrist flicking deftly, thumb tracing circles on the head. Charlie opens his eyes and gazes fixedly at Robert. He bucks his hips almost against his will, thrusting into the man’s hand, his own hands gripping the bed sheets with white-knuckled ferocity. Robert smiles and leans in to kiss him.

The kiss breaks, and Robert rests his forehead against Charlie’s. He can feel the thin sheen of sweat that covers Charlie’s own forehead, and the warmth of Charlie’s breath against his face. His hand stills on Charlie’s cock, and Charlie opens his eyes again and exhales heavily.

“Don’t stop,” he mumbles pathetically.

Robert ducks his head to Charlie’s ear, and bites it gently, then whispers, voice hoarse and deep, “Need to. If I wanna fuck you.”

Everything goes deathly silent, and Charlie can feel his pulse in his head, pounding against his skull. Eventually he manages a guttural, “Christ. Yes. Please.”

And Robert complies.

First he kisses Charlie’s eyes. Then he picks up the lubricant from the mattress and unscrews the cap. The liquid squirts out of the tube under the pressure of Robert’s grip, and he catches it in his other hand. Dropping the tube over the side of the bed, he rubs his hands together, smearing the lubricant over his fingers and palms. Robert places his forearms on Charlie’s bent knees, and pushes the man’s legs apart, the puts a single finger to Charlie’s stomach, and runs it down, past his cock.

“You ready?” Robert asks him.

Charlie doesn’t know. He nods. Closes his eyes yet again and sees a flash of a hotel room, of blond hair and lanky limbs. Opens his eyes and shivers as Robert presses a finger inside him, slow and careful. Robert pauses for a while, then withdraws his finger most of the way and adds a second, and it is maybe too soon, as Charlie squirms uncomfortably when Robert presses them into him. Faltering slightly at Charlie’s discomfort, Robert waits for the man to relax before continuing.

After a time Charlie is squirming again, now in impatience. The feeling of Robert’s fingers working inside him has become familiar and good, almost pleasurable, but his cock has softened and he aches to be touched. “Come on,” he growls. Robert says nothing, but withdraws his fingers completely and ducks his head to lick a line up Charlie’s cock, teasing it back to hardness with his tongue.

As Robert glides his tongue up the underside of Charlie’s cock, Charlie lets his head fall back against the wall. A dull thud sounds in the otherwise quiet room. His mouth opens slightly and he sucks in a shallow breath, and Robert slides up Charlie’s body to kiss his jaw and neck.

“Robert…” Charlie trails off.

Robert moves to Charlie’s ear, breathing hot and steady against his skin. “Charlie,” he replies, voice rough and barely audible.

“Want. You.”

Robert bypasses any verbal response, instead kissing Charlie’s open mouth, biting his lower lip gently. With his arms, Robert nudges Charlie’s legs apart further and pushes his thighs back against his stomach. He reaches over to his bedside table again, grabbing a condom, which he is quick to open and slide over his cock. Then he takes his cock in his hand, slicking it with lubricant.

Charlie can feel the head of Robert’s cock against his opening, then the slow build of pressure as Robert pushes into him. Charlie squeezes his eyes tightly shut and shifts uncomfortably. He remembers the sensation of being inside another man, and wonders if he feels as tight and warm to Robert, if Robert feels that same sense of power and control. Then, guiltily, if Josh felt as awkward as he does.

Robert pauses once he’s fully inside and says, “What are you thinking about?”

And Charlie’s guilt redoubles. The thought of Josh flickers from his mind as he forces himself to look at Robert. Those beautiful moss green eyes shine back at him, and he lets himself free-fall into them, thinking of nothing but right now.

“Charlie?” Robert asks, sounding slightly concerned. “Are you okay?”

Charlie nods quickly. “I’m fine,” he replies, voice a little strained. “Just. Please move.”

Robert smiles and does as he’s told, pulling out most of the way, then slowly pressing in again. Charlie groans, somewhere between pleasure and relief. Encouraged by this sound, Robert repeats the action, chuckling as Charlie makes an almost cat-like mewling noise.

Robert’s thrusts gradually pick up speed, and Charlie is just as gradually reduced to a bundle of nerves and sweaty skin. His breathing becomes ragged and shallow, and he can feel his heart beating heavy in his chest. And when Robert hits his prostate, Charlie yelps at the intensity of the sensation. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes.

By the time he comes, Charlie’s whole body is shaking and slick with sweat. Robert continues to thrust into him as Charlie rides out the orgasm, until he too comes, buried in Charlie, in his body and his hair, and crying out Charlie’s name.

-

A kitchen. Robert’s, and a still naked Charlie stands at the island bench fixing two cups of coffee. There comes the soft pat of feet on linoleum, and Robert appears behind him, clad now in boxer shorts, hair wet from the shower.

“Hey,” Robert purrs, snaking his arms around Charlie’s middle, pressing up against his back. Charlie pours milk into one of the mugs, and stirs it with a teaspoon, but says nothing. Robert leans his head over Charlie’s shoulder, and places a kiss to the man’s neck. He opens his mouth against Charlie’s skin, and sucks gently on the sensitive flesh. He is semi-erect, pressed close to Charlie, and allows one hand to slip down through Charlie’s pubic hair and wrap around his cock.

Charlie lets go of the teaspoon, and it clatters onto the bench, droplets of coffee flying from it. He drops his hand to meet Robert’s, and guides the man’s hand along the length of his cock. But while he does so, and while Robert sucks on his neck, sure to leave his mark, Charlie finds himself thinking of a different blond. Imagines it’s Josh licking up his neck, stroking his cock. And he freezes, suddenly feeling incredibly out of place.

Robert stops too, and says, “What’s up?”

“I have to go,” Charlie replies. He turns to look at Robert and finds Robert looks strangely at ease, which surprises Charlie.

“It’s cool,” he says.

Then Robert lets Charlie head back to the bedroom to recover his clothing. When the man returns, fully dressed, Robert steps up to him and takes hold of his forearms. He leans in and kisses Charlie tenderly, lingering slightly before he pulls away.

“Sorry,” Charlie sighs, and realises he may be gazing into those impossibly green eyes for the last time. He does his best to commit the exact shade of green to his memory.

“I said it’s cool,” Robert says. He lets go of Charlie’s arms, and smiles softly. “It’s been fun,” he adds.

“Yeah,” Charlie agrees, and smiles a genuine smile.

Then he leaves Robert and two cups of coffee, and ventures out into the night, ready to head for home.

-

A television studio. Charlie closes the door of his dressing room as he steps out into the hallway. He turns around just in time to see Josh and Amanda approach. As they pass him by, deep in conversation, Josh brushes lightly, accidentally, against Charlie’s arm. Charlie’s skin prickles and he falters, starts imagining Josh slowly undressing him, and suddenly, _finally_ , he knows.

-

 _Three days later_

A phone call. It is just past midday. The reception is clear and strong, but the silence from both sides is a dead weight along the line. Charlie finds himself wishing he would be disconnected, but knows there’s no chance of that.

“Hello?” Josh’s voice calls, breaking the silence.

Charlie swallows heavily then, and eventually manages to speak. “Josh,” he says, “it’s Charlie. I just wanted to say… I love you.”

And invisible over the phone, but somehow felt down the line, Josh smiles.


End file.
